


Turn Off The Lights

by purecamp



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: M/M, Oops, Why do I do this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 10:19:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12430731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purecamp/pseuds/purecamp
Summary: every time alaska calls, sharon answers. she swears she’s going to give her up, but she never does. she’s taking every chance she’s got, like the man she knows she’s not. based off the song by panic! at the disco.





	Turn Off The Lights

**Author's Note:**

> A/N - this piece of shit is inspired by turn off the lights by panic! at the disco. here’s a special mention for dottie, who catfished me/likes p!atd too. we agreed there needs to be more p!atd inspired fics so this one goes out to you, ya rotted cunt
> 
> ^^ this is the artificialqueens a/n that i wrote at the time. this was written and posted feb 16th 2017

I’ve got my heavy heart to hold me down

Once it falls apart my head’s in the clouds

Sharon wakes up at five in the morning, rolling over onto her back and staring up at the ceiling. Well no, that’s a lie. At five in the morning, she stops trying to feign sleep and instead accepts the knowledge that she is, in fact, awake, and that there’s no point pretending otherwise. It’s not like Alaska will care. Alaska’s still asleep. Alaska wouldn’t care either way.

A strange feeling swells in her chest; something like a toxic mixture of dread and resignation. It’s not regret, definitely. She never regrets anything. The same she’s most known by is Sharon Needles, punctuated with a middle name of ‘motherfucking’, and Sharon motherfucking Needles doesn’t take any shit. Doesn’t feel any regrets. Sharon motherfucking Needles is always in control.

Part of the feeling in her chest seems to be disappointment. Yet again, she’s done it. She lets herself be used, pushed around, and tossed aside like a ragdoll. Once was a time when she was more than just a toy to be played with, to be roughhoused and then discarded whenever Alaska saw fit. She used to be more than this. Not anymore.

She aches, but that’s normal. It’s a physical ache, that permeates her abused hips and knees and elbows. Even her back and shoulders are feeling it. She’s far too old to be doing this, to be putting her body through this, but the ache that comes from it is less than the ache that consumes her when she tries to stay away.

Sharon’s no stranger to addiction, but this – this is going to kill her. Glancing over, she can see Alaska lying fast asleep into the pillow. She looked young, innocent, perhaps even soft and sweet. Danger practically radiated from her when she was awake, but when she slept it was as if she was nothing. Sharon quickly averts her eyes, not wanting to look for too long. As much as she loves looking at Alaska, she’s always afraid. Afraid that Alaska will see her. Afraid that Alaska will stop calling. Afraid of Alaska.

She knows people can tell. She knows her friends look at her and see her eyes, resembling shattered glass. She knows they see the red and purple bruises, the tense movements, the slump of her shoulders. She knows she can’t do anything about it at all. She knows her conscience is heavier than her ego, which remains large despite being beaten down again and again by one stupid guy who goes by the name of Alaska Thunderfuck and shouldn’t have so much of an effect on her.

Sharon was just sick of being on her own. Sick of being alone. Now she’s stuck in this vicious nightmare, a brutal cycle of sex and broken hearts and tongues that cut like knife blades and nails that scratch like daggers. The fucking devil won’t get off her back and somehow she doesn’t care, doesn’t mind. The devil doesn’t care about her either. The devil could live without her. Alaska has everything and all Sharon has is a self-esteem that’s been whittled so low that she does this to herself, tortures herself, and a shred of dignity only remains due to being snagged on the jagged edges of her heart. It hurts. Of course it hurts.

It hurts knowing Alaska is sleeping next to her, dreaming dreams that don’t involve her and never will again. It hurts that the routine is always the same and will never change. It hurts that right next to her, inches away, is the beautifully naked body that haunts her mind in and out of her fitful sleep, and she can’t touch. Can’t look. Can’t appreciate. She really thought that letting herself have one last taste would sate her, and now she’s here. Stuck.

This is how it always goes, but Sharon’s determined. She’ll let this be the last time. This is the last time she’ll let herself lie in this bed, vulnerable and naked, fragile and misused. It’s a bittersweet feeling. But it needs to end. She needs to stop. So she lies there and she waits for the familiar words to come, after the familiar sounds of Alaska waking meet her ears. She knows this off by heart. That’s another thing that makes her heart heavy.

It stings even more when she hears the words, even though she expects them. Every time they come. Every time she nods meekly and obeys. Who even is she? Part of her misses the times when she could stay, their bodies entwined in close proximity. Part of her knows that it’s better this way. Part of her realizes that it has to come to an end.

“Get out.” Alaska spits, and that’s it.

Sharon rises. It’s silent as she dresses, not daring to look at Alaska. Alaska looks at her, unashamed, perhaps disgusted, perhaps deadpan. She doesn’t care. She’s indifferent. It doesn’t bother her in the slightest.

It bothers Sharon, and that’s why she resolves to end it. She won’t do this again. She hurts, mentally and physically. Her body aches as she walks away and her heart aches as she closes the door behind her and her head aches as she begins to drive away. But it’s for the best. Pain like this can be avoided, surely. Addictions like this can be treated, so long as you’re strong willed. And if there’s anything Sharon prides herself on, it’s being strong willed. No one tells Sharon motherfucking Needles what to do, even in the bleary morning light, when she’s not Sharon. When she’s not sexy and silly and funny and adorning white hair and large heels and elaborate outfits. Nothing should change when she has shaggy boy hair and loose boy clothes and a sinking feeling in her chest. She isn’t Sharon and somehow that makes all the difference. Sharon wouldn’t let this happen. So Sharon isn’t going to let this happen. Not anymore.

It’s a fresh start and it’s a new start and she feels good. She’s done this before, tried to escape, but it’s never worked. But she’s determined. She can do it. She will. Why should she stay? She has no reason. What she needs is stability now, safety and security. Danger is enticing and thrilling but her reflexes aren’t what they used to be and the excitement that comes from the rush has dimmed. She’s still attracted to it, but she knows she shouldn’t be. Common sense tells her as much. Danger brings pain and fuck, she’s felt a lot of that pain. She can’t do it again. It’s not right.

Thirteen days pass and she’s free. Thirteen days she spends by herself, waking in the morning and leisurely making her own breakfast, not having to walk out and drive somewhere with shame and dread and guilt lingering over her like a black cloud. Thirteen days she notes as her record, and she’s doing fine. Sharon doesn’t need Alaska. To Alaska, she’s nothing but a plaything, a toy, sometime to use and abuse and mess with. Not anymore. She’s not doing that anymore. She won’t let herself.

Thirteen days pass and she’s free, until it’s a stupid hour in the morning and she receives that text. Oh fuck, that fucking text. The imperative, demanding tone. The way she can hear the vocal fry in her head, commanding her as she reads it. The way it’s short and simple and yet so horribly tempting. Not tempting. Compulsory.

A: come over.

Thirteen days pass until she receives that fucking text. Thirteen days pass. Thirteen. She’s been so strong. She is strong. She’s her own person. She doesn’t need this. She’s not going to run back to Alaska this time, not going to waste her time. Who needs time? She’s not going to waste hers on a night that will leave her aching and unloved and useless. She’s not going to do it. Gone is the feeble hope that letting Alaska use her for her filthy games, her own satisfaction, will make her fall back in love. That’s not how it works. That’s never been how it works. She’s not going to let it happen again.

Thirteen days pass until she receives that fucking text.

Thirteen days.

And then, she submits.

So I’m taking every chance I’ve got

Like the man I know I’m not


End file.
